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The Holy Land

It doesn’t seem fair to go on about the weather, no matter how much we Canadians love to talk about it. But I will, just for a sec. Tonight an “Alberta clipper” is headed our way, after a chilly weekend, we are in for snow and then rain, but it is finally ushering in above freezing temperatures. Tomorrow could be absolutely balmy, but wet. Hope is on that dark horizon of approaching storm.

A colleague had mentioned a few weeks ago something about me swanning around my home, pajama clad, on Sunday mornings. What a lovely, if untrue vision. This particular person is a local minister and commenting––somewhat slyly sliding it into our conversation––on my lack of attendance at church. I have to say that the picture I am posting in this particular blog is my cathedral on Sunday mornings. For me, my union with the big picture takes place under a ceiling of wonder. I try to get out back whenever I can during the week, but our long walk on Sunday morning, down through the woods, through farmers’ lanes, up escarpments, and across more fields, is filled with silence, timelessness, absolute wonder, even on the grayest of winter days, discovery, not to mention observation of a wonderful curious little being who connects distant tales –in time and geography––of the animal kingdom, back to our trek and to our moment.

There is comfort in the solitude, occasionally we come across someone else, a neighbour enjoying the same thing. In our light conversation (about the weather) we understand what it is that brings us to the middle of nowhere. It’s not that there is now a lack of busyness, it’s just that busyness is replaced by something I find far more nourishing. I can’t really explain it, nor should I have to.